


concessions, worthwhile

by pennyofthewild



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Canon Compliant, Emergency Room Setting, Fractures, Future Fic, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Past Relationship(s), gratuitous use of medical terminology, mentions of background character abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2015-02-15
Packaged: 2018-03-13 01:45:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3363188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pennyofthewild/pseuds/pennyofthewild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Shintarou’s eyes narrow behind his frameless glasses. His mouth thins out. “There are a thousand emergency rooms in Tokyo. Have your chauffeur drive you to another one.”] </p><p>Fate works in interesting ways. </p><p>(or, the one in which Akashi is hit by a bus.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	concessions, worthwhile

**Author's Note:**

  * For [meguri_aite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/meguri_aite/gifts), [masi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/masi/gifts).



> this is basically the story of my love-hate relationship with aka/mido. incidentally, my first ever aka/mido fic?
> 
> written while listening to countless repeats of [the scientist](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EdBym7kv2IM), fueled by rakuzan-vs-shuutoku rage.
> 
> basically unedited! please let me know if you find any ridiculous typos so that i can fix them. thank you for reading!
> 
> this fic can also be read on my writing sideblog [**[here]**](http://pennysdrabbledump.tumblr.com/post/111085166971/concessions-worthwhile)

It is a sunny Winter afternoon in Tokyo when Akashi Seijuurou is hit by a bus. In line with his life’s Ultimate Principle – I Am Absolute – the bus and its occupants receive the worse end of the deal (the bus driver is fired almost immediately, the passengers are all late to their appointments, the company becomes the subject of a lawsuit it is doomed to lose).

 Akashi, meanwhile, walks away – figuratively – with only a broken leg.

Shintarou is the attending ER physician when Akashi is wheeled in. Later, he will discover Akashi insisted on being brought to this hospital knowing full well it is where Shintarou works. In the moment, however, he is called out of the break room, two minutes into said break – his first in an exhausting five hours during which he’d dealt with a seventeen-year old shock patient (who’d somehow shot himself while playing at being yakuza), helped a junior obstetrician emergently deliver a baby with shoulder dystocia, and stabilized a case of status epilepticus – in response to the insistent beeping of his pager.

He pulls the privacy curtain back from around Akashi’s bed, takes one look at Akashi lying on the bed with his left leg held at an awkward angle and his face twisted into a mockery of pain (but otherwise looking very much the same as he had when Shintarou saw him last, barring a few new wrinkles around his mouth and eyes), turns around and walks back the way he’d come.

“Wait, Shintarou,” Akashi calls, and force of habit – that apparently hasn’t let up even after fifteen+ years of steadfastly ignoring Akashi’s existence – draws Shintarou to a halt just inside the door. He half-turns, as slowly as he possibly can, feeling mutinous, like a child being sent for a time-out, and pushes his hands into the pockets of his knee-length white lab coat – a mark of his status –  in a deliberate attempt to look casually unruffled.

“What,” he says. “Is this some kind of joke to you? Coming to show me up at my workplace?”

“Of course not, Shintarou,” Akashi says, in the way Shintarou privately thinks is his most insincere, “as you can no doubt see, I require your services.”

Shintarou’s eyes narrow behind his frameless glasses. His mouth thins out. “There are a thousand emergency rooms in Tokyo. Have your chauffeur drive you to another one.” Akashi’s leg has not yet been splinted; therefore, he must have come to the hospital by private car.

“Would you really inconvenience me so, Shintarou?” Akashi asks, and Shintarou is about to reply, “yes, I most certainly would,” when Yoshida-san, the nurse-in-charge, arrives with a large manila envelope and an even larger smile.

“The x-rays, sensei,” he says, “I took the liberty of contacting the orthopaedics team. They said they’d send someone down as soon as they can, but in the meantime, it looks like a clean break.”

Shintarou, holding the film up to the light, is forced to admit that it is, in fact, a clean break. Of course it is clean, and not a messy compound fracture or something equally troublesome, because this is Akashi Seijuurou, Manipulator of Fate to Suit His Will, and so despite it being a tibial fracture, the fibula is not involved, unlike in 75%+ of tibial fracture cases.

Shintarou closes his eyes, briefly, forcing a breath through his teeth. “Fine. I will set your leg. Then I will write you a referral, and you will follow up at a different facility.”

“Are you always this brusque with your patients, Shintarou,” Akashi says, in the haughtily amused manner special to him, even though Shintarou is in the position of power, “or am I the only one to be honored with your candor?”

“Most of my patients,” Shintarou lifts Akashi’s patient chart off the end of the bed, “do not make a habit of telling me they want to be my enemy.”

Akashi’s vitals, the chart informs Shintarou, are within normal limits, though his heart and respiratory rate are slightly elevated. It isn’t something entirely unexpected, but Shintarou makes a mental note to ask Yoshida-san to up Akashi’s painkiller dosage.

“How uncharacteristically bitter of you,” Akashi says as Shintarou, having disinfected his hands, presses his fingers against the pulse point over Akashi’s foot, first one, then the other, “as always, Shintarou, you surpass my expectations of you.” His tone makes it clear he does not mean the remark to be a positive one.

Shintarou glances at Akashi’s face (an unarguably Adult Face, now. There are no traces of Akashi-the-teenager’s round cheeks and chin; in their place are high wide cheekbones and a strong jaw) before folding the sheets back to expose the rest of his leg (still pale and wiry, dusted with dark red hair).

He considers saying something like _I’m not seventeen years old anymore. I don’t care what you think._ Instead, what comes out is, “a bitter statement of facts? I wasn’t aware there was such a thing. I wonder, Akashi, what your opinion is on two-and-two is four.”

The skin over Akashi’s shin is unbroken. The part of Shintarou that cares about providing the best care he can rejoices, silently. It is swollen, however, and there is a large, mottled bruise extending along the line of the bone. Akashi gasps, slightly, when Shintarou applies pressure.

“Sorry,” Shintarou says, reflexively, and, “when I do not apply pressure, do you feel any pain?”

“Not really.”

“Can you move your ankle, then?” Shintarou asks, and talks Akashi through the full range of movement before proceeding to Akashi’s hip and knee. He takes a moment to write _lower limb_ _neurological exam normal_ in the patient notes. “I’m going to get you an ice pack,” Shintarou says, “and have the nurse increase your medication dosage. I’ll be back to apply the splint when you’re no longer in pain.”

Akashi gives Shintarou a _look_. It pronounces the permanent furrow between his eyebrows, drags his mouth down in an expression decidedly reminiscent of his father. “Why not now?”

“I do not,” Shintarou says, stiffly, “wish to cause you any unnecessary discomfort.”

There is a moment of silence, during which Akashi stares at Shintarou, and Shintarou stares back. Then Akashi’s lips twitch.

“Shintarou, please,” he says. “Spare me your penitence.”

Shintarou turns away so Akashi cannot see him roll his eyes, and goes to call Yoshida-san in.

 

***

 

The first time Shintarou slept with Akashi was after Akashi lost the Winter Cup to Seirin. Actually, that is probably not the best way to describe what happened. It would be more accurate to say that the first time Akashi slept with Shintarou was after he lost the Winter Cup to Seirin, because of course, it was Akashi’s idea, Akashi who was the initiator, the instigator, Akashi who propped himself up on his elbow, sunk into Shintarou’s mattress with the sheets slung low on his hips and ran his fingers through Shintarou’s fringe, idly, as if it just happened to be something to do:

“I wonder,” he’d said, eyes half-shuttered, “if defeat tastes different depending on who deals it out,”

to which Shintarou thought to reply – later, too late, after Akashi had gone, leaving the ghost of himself in Shintarou’s bed and the impression of his lips against Shintarou’s temple and the imprint of his perfume in the air of Shintarou’s room – 

“You wouldn’t know, would you?”

 

***

 

He shouldn’t, Shintarou thinks, find the satisfaction he does in Akashi’s automatic hiss as Yoshida-san positions his leg, flexing it at the knee and hip. Hadn’t Shintarou warned him? Isn’t Akashi still human, fragile and breakable (he is heavier around the shoulders and chest, now, but still slender), despite all evidence to the contrary?

As it turns out, Shintarou is a meaner, pettier man than he’d like to think. He’s better off leaving the magnanimous gestures to people like Kuroko, or Kuroko’s former teammate Iron Heart Kiyoshi Teppei, who Shintarou remembers solely because of the number of times he’s turned up in the ER sporting numerous injuries of varying severity: cuts, bruises, burns.

On his last visit, a little over two months ago, Shintarou had taken him aside and said,

“Kiyoshi-san, far be it for me to meddle in your personal affairs, but if you require any assistance in ending any negative associations you might have found yourself in, know that you can reach out to me at any time. The hospital has a department that deals with domestic abuse – ”

Kiyoshi had blinked at him, shaken his head. “Thank you, sensei,” he said. “I will keep that in mind.”

Shintarou begins wrapping the splint, careful to space the overlaps neatly.

The door to the room opens slightly, and the receptionist appears in the crack. “Sorry to bother you, sensei,” she says, “but Hwang-san is here for her medication refill. Should I ask her to wait?”

Shintarou shakes his head. “There’s no need,” he says. “There is a clear plastic bag inside the top drawer of my desk with her name on it. You can give it to her now.”

The silence in her wake is broken by Yoshida-san, who says, “it’s very kind of you to help Hwang-san out the way you do, sensei.”

Shintarou presses his lips together, displeased at having attention drawn to his not-entirely-legal charity work. “Please refrain from mentioning it, Yoshida-san,” he says, a statement which, given his tone and the phrasing, can easily be construed as rude or irredeemably humble.

Akashi chuckles, finding something to laugh at Shintarou about even while Shintarou is working to prevent his leg from healing crooked, and matching his personality.

“Pay him no mind,” he tells Yoshida-san, “Shintarou has always been exceedingly humble. He only accepts solicited compliments, isn’t that right, Shintarou?”

Shintarou pauses. He tips his head to the side and smiles the sort of smile his younger sister describes as “completely and utterly creepy, niisan, please don’t”.

“Far be it for (such as) me to have any expectations of you, Akashi,” he says, blandly, “however, that was _uncharacteristically bitter_ of you, wouldn’t you say?”

Akashi blinks, taken aback. Shintarou secures the end of the elastic bandage wrap. Yoshida-san looks faintly terrified.

“Thank you, Yoshida-san,” Shintarou says, and Yoshida-san nods and makes a hasty retreat.

Shintarou, gathering up the remaining wrap and padding, cannot bring himself to blame him. It is on the tip of his tongue to apologize, to say _forgive me; that was discourteous_. Another instance of long-time habits being difficult to break. He clears his throat.

“That will set in ten minutes, so try not to move till it has. I will go see about crutches, and write you a prescription for pain control – ”

“I _am_ sorry, you know, Shintarou,” Akashi interrupts. He fixes Shintarou with a look that makes it clear exactly what he is apologizing for.

Shintarou straightens. “I don’t care,” he says, and allows himself the satisfaction of adding, “you can take your apology and shove it.”

The aftermath of this emphatic statement is Akashi, looking bewildered for the second time in as many minutes. Bewilderment is a good look for him, Shintarou decides, as he retrieves a prescription pad from the storage closet in the corner of the room.

“Granted, I deserved that,” Akashi says, quickly recovering, with Akashi-like fortitude, “but it does not change the fact that I really am.”

Shintarou meets his eyes, unflinching. During his years of being a physician in the emergency room, he has seen too many scary, unsettling things to continue being afraid of Akashi Seijuurou.

“I would be better inclined to believe you,” he says, in between writing _ibuprofen 600mg q6h_ and _acetaminophen, PRN_ , “were I not convinced of your inability to process such a complex emotion.”

“So harsh, Shintarou,” Akashi murmurs. “You haven’t changed in the slightest.”

“Neither have you,” Shintarou retorts, tearing the prescription from the pad with more force than strictly necessary, “and more’s the pity.”

“I do wonder,” Akashi muses, as if Shintarou had not spoken, “if I have ever told you how _spectacular_ you are when you are angry.”

Shintarou stills in the midst of writing out the referral to the orthopaedics department. “Excuse me?”

“I mean it,” Akashi says, sounding as though he does, “you are spectacular when angry,” and he does not elaborate any further.

Fine, Shintarou thinks. Be that way. He finishes writing the referral, signs it, slips his pen back into his coat pocket, folds the sheet of paper in half.

“Is that my transfer note, _sensei_?” Akashi asks, the _sensei_ low and mocking. “So, where have you decided to send me?”

Shintarou fixes him with a cool stare. He is ready to be out of this room, away from Akashi and his suffocating presence.

 “The orthopaedics department upstairs,” he says. “They will see you within five days, and decide whether you require surgery or if a cast will suffice.”

“And in the meantime, I can return home,” Akashi says. It isn’t a question.

Shintarou nods on his way towards the door. “Of course. I will send somebody with the crutches, and you can leave as soon as you see fit.”

“So _impersonal_ ,” Akashi mutters under his breath, and it takes Shintarou a moment to process that he _did_ , in fact, hear what he heard.

 _“Spare me your penitence,”_ Akashi had said, earlier, and, “ _you are spectacular when angry.”_ And now, there is this. Shintarou stops and frowns, trying and failing to keep the exasperation from his voice as he says, “what is it that you _want_ from me, Akashi?”

 

***

 

The last time Akashi slept with Shintarou was half-way through their second year of university. Akashi was majoring in Business and Economics (though his plan was quite flexible, and he was still playing basketball). Shintarou was in his fourth semester of medical school, struggling, after the initial glamor of _I got in_ faded, to rediscover the passion that had lead him to enroll in the program in the first place.

They weren’t quite _living_ together; Akashi had his own place and Shintarou’s was a flat in one of the university’s student housing complexes, but Akashi seemed to spend more time in Shintarou’s space than he did his own. Shintarou’s chest of drawers had been divided solidly down the middle: the right side was Akashi’s, the left Shintarou’s. Akashi’s button-downs hung in between Shintarou’s scrubs, his brightly-polished leather shoes sat next to Shintarou’s sneakers on the shoe-shelf.

It had been, as far as appearances were concerned, an idyllic sort of relationship. And it was, in the moments between Shintarou’s rampant insecurities and Akashi’s careless contempt. In between Shintarou’s moments of crippling uncertainty and Akashi’s sharp, quick anger.

It was, until Shintarou thought to ask, one night, as he lay on his back listening to Akashi breathe,

“what exactly is it that we’re doing, Seijuurou?”

 

***

 

Akashi looks surprised that Shintarou has come out and asked outright, instead of trying (and failing) to be subtle. The moment drags on long enough for Shintarou to consider repeating the inquiry. He remembers the (innumerable) games he has played against Akashi, and how Akashi always used the same strategy to win each one. _The secret, Shintarou, is to lay your groundwork without your opponent’s noticing_. Shintarou has countless proofs of how well Akashi applies this philosophy to every aspect of his life.

He wonders if, even now, he is unknowingly dancing to the steps of Akashi’s tune, a melody played on a Silver Pipe, pulling Shintarou along, a child among the many of doomed Hamelin.

Shintarou has stumbled upon the secret, however.

The secret, Shintarou thinks, is that the Piper is a child, too, like the ever-young Prince of Neverland. That is where his charm lies, as well as his undoing.

The secret is that no human being is infallible. It is that Akashi Seijuurou is a human being.

“I rather think,” Akashi says, thoughtfully, interrupting Shintarou’s musings, “a better question would be: _what don’t_ I want from you, Shintarou.” He tilts his chin, as if to say, _if you’re going to stay, why not sit down?_

Shintarou has been on his feet since his shift began five hours ago. His pager has been deceptively silent for the last twenty minutes, and will probably go off the moment he sits down. He pulls a chair up and sinks into it anyway, his back aching with protest.

“We’re not getting any younger, are we, Shintarou,” Akashi says, frighteningly in-line with Shintarou’s thoughts, as always. It is one of the reasons they (used to) get along so well: they operate on the same strange, otherworldly wavelength.

“No, we are not.”

Akashi taps his fingers against his leg, an indolent sort of gesture that serves to make him look as though he is an Emperor seated on his throne, presiding over an audience of nobles and courtiers, instead of a businessman with a broken leg, lying in hospital bed with his erstwhile enemy as his only company.

Stupid, contrary Akashi. Shintarou’s life would have been so much simpler without him.

“To answer your question, Shintarou,” Akashi says, settling into his pillows and fixing his eyes on Shintarou’s face, “perhaps you can begin with telling me why you’ve gone back to calling me Akashi. I understand I have a first name, and that is not it.”

There is more than just idle curiosity in his tone, a deeper, more pensive note, and what sounds – to Shintarou – like something akin to hurt. He’d like to think it is his imagination, but he has had far too much practice reading Akashi to read him wrong.

The idea – that Shintarou has enough power over Akashi to cause him some measure of _hurt_ – would otherwise be laughable, in Shintarou’s eyes, but here is a suggestion that perhaps he is mistaken. It wouldn’t be the first time.

However – there is no shame in mistakes, merely in the refusal to own up to those mistakes, once made. Like falling, in the middle of a basketball match. Shintarou bites his lip, to keep from smiling. He lifts his gaze, deliberately, to meet Akashi’s.

“Not so much a name, Seijuurou,” he says, slowly – his tongue curls, possessive, around the syllables, “but a title.”

Akashi’s expression flickers, softens, harsh lines giving way to solemn, wistful curves. The fluorescent white lighting over the bed deepens the laugh-lines in his face and brings out the gray in his hair, gray that probably matches the streaks in Shintarou’s.

Shintarou can’t say he isn’t surprised Akashi isn’t dyeing it.

“Oh, Shintarou, you silly, silly man,” Akashi says, a mixture of exasperation and fondness coloring his voice, “it has never been your place to look up at me.”

 

***

 

The next day, Akashi turns up on the doorstep of Shintarou’s (privately owned, wholly his) flat, crutches under one arm, a valise in the other.

“I took the elevator, Shintarou, don’t look so horrified,” Akashi says, inviting himself into Shintarou’s home. He stands, just inside the door, for several moments, taking in the minimalist black-and-metal furniture, the framed pictures on the wall. Shuutoku. Teiko. The Generation of Miracles. Midorima and Akashi. Shintarou and Seijuurou. King, and Emperor.  

“Ah,” he says. “I see you’ve kept the photographs.”

Shintarou swallows. “Of course.”

Akashi smiles up at him, an easy, familiar smile. “Then,” he says, and leans, purposefully, into Shintarou’s personal space, fitting into Shintarou's side like a puzzle piece, a lock in a key, like he _belongs_ , “I take it you have room for me, too.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

-fin


End file.
